


Homecoming

by mautadite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Family Fluff, Gen, Meet the Family, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa comes home from King's Landing University for the holidays, having broken up with Joffrey Baratheon, bringing along her new girlfriend Margaery Tyrell. And she's not the only one with big news, it seems.</p><p>Fluffy family Christmas fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ASOIAF kink meme. Prompt: ‘Sansa comes home from King's Landing University for the holidays, having broken up with Joffrey Baratheon, bringing with her new girlfriend Margaery Tyrell.’ I stuck to the prompt, but it also sort of veered off into 6,000 words of family fluff, whoops. Thank you to Mona and Ingrid for help with little details. ;)

Margaery is still sleepy from the flight in; it clings to the corner of her eyes and her soft, droopy laughter. After they shower together in the hallway bathroom — giggling like schoolgirls and shushing each other alternately — Sansa leaves her napping in her bed, sprawled almost gracefully above the duvet while the pale pink walls of her childhood room look down around her. Flushed from the warm water, Sansa smiles, and can’t resist giving her girlfriend a few sneaky Eskimo kisses.

 _Girlfriend_. Wow, yeah. It’s never not going to be amazing saying that.

~~~

Shrugging on a robe over her pyjamas, Sansa gets a towel for her hair, and then pads down the hallway to Robb’s room. At first she thinks he’s not in, but then her tentative knock is answered by a, “Wha— yeah, come in.”

Robb’s laying down on his bed with his laptop perched on his stomach, in the process of taking off his headphones. They stare at each other for a second, grinning. Her brother’s grown taller and stronger and somehow gingerer since the last time she saw him, and he also seems… happier. The shadow of red hair curling around his jaw folds into his smile.

“ _So_ ,” she says, sliding onto his bed and draping her towel around her neck. “Theon Greyjoy.”

“ _So_ ,” he shoots back, pushing his laptop aside and shifting around to make room for her. “Margaery Tyrell.”

The silence and impassive staring only lasts a split second before they both burst into breathless, quiet laughter, falling back against Robb’s pillows.

“Wow,” Sansa giggles, hugging herself, “and I thought _I_ would be the one knock it over the fence with my Christmas surprise.”

“No, don’t worry, I think you still take the cake.” Robb has a little box of sweets on his bedside table; he grabs it and hunts through for a lemon one, throwing it over to her with a sheepish grin. “Apparently, no one’s _really_ that surprised about me and Theon, if you want to believe Jon ‘you and he have been emotionally doing it since you were seven years old’ Snow.”

Sansa giggles again, unable to contain it. After she’d gotten over the initial hump of nervousness at breaking the news, coming back home to Winterfell has been like… an exercise in joy, learning to laugh again.

“ _Were_ you? You know, emotionally doing it?” 

This time, he throws a pillow at her.

“Ha ha.” He starts unsticking a sweet himself. “Honestly though, I think Mum knew ages ago, probably before it even started. And do you remember when Rickon used to—”

“Follow you guys around and continuously ask if he had to be the flower boy at your wedding, because if it was up to him, he’d much rather be the ring bearer?”

“Yeppp.” Robb rubs the back of his hair in that sheepish way he has, laughing. “Even back then, I wasn’t… well. Anyway, everyone’s pretty cool about it. Really, the only person I’m really worried about right now is… well, Dad.”

“ _Dad_?” Sansa pulls a face. “Come on, Robb. You’re his kid, his son, his _firstborn_.” She rubs his knee through his jeans briskly. “I’m sure the whole not-straight thing is kind of throwing him for a loop where both of us are concerned, but he won’t—”

“Oh, no, shit, yeah, I know that, don’t worry,” he assures her, palms up. “I’m less concerned about him being all ‘why does it have to be blokes’ than I am about him being, you know. ‘Why does it have to be _Theon_ ’.”

“…Ah.” Sansa presses her lips together, falling silent. After a moment, she finally pops her sweetie out of the wrapper and places it on the tip of her tongue, sucking thoughtfully. Robb blinks at her, and then groans.

“Not you too!”

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“You didn’t have to!” He looks so pained, it’s hard to want to laugh at him like this. “I swear, he just… acts like an ass ninety per cent of the time, but he’s really, really—”

“Great!” Sansa waves her hands in front of her face semi-frantically. “I’m sure he’s really lovely in his own Theon Wayjoy!” Robb cringes in that scrunchy-faced way he has, and she gets another pillow for her trouble, which she grabs and hugs to herself as she shrugs. “I just… I can see why Dad would have misgivings? Even if it’s not right that he has them?”

Sansa still remembers that year, though she’d been very young. Her father and his partner, Uncle Robert, had made the front page two days in a row, after months of undercover and endless nights away from home had yielded a break in one of the biggest fencing operations the city had ever seen. Balon Greyjoy and his ring had stolen and resold enough to make him a millionaire, and leave more than a few bodies along the way. 

While the father was being processed, funerals were being planned for the older sons, and the mother and daughter were being searched for, the youngest Greyjoy had ended up spending some time in the Stark household. Not long, but somehow, in the time it took to find a suitable foster home for Theon, he and Robb had become inseparable. Even after he’d been given a new home, Theon was more likely to be found making mischief with Robb around Winterfell than with his foster family. And now, thirteen years later…

“I mean, yeah,” Robb presses, “he caused trouble every now and again when we were young, but can you blame him? His dad was a bloody crime lord, and he had to watch him get taken down. Of course that messed with him. But Theon is _not_ his father, I can—”

“ _No_ one is saying that,” Sansa hurries to assure him, rubbing his leg again. “I grew up with him too, remember? He’s a bit of a… well, you know, but everyone knows he’s solid. Dad’ll get over it in time, I bet.”

Robb deflates a bit, running his hands through his curls. 

“I hope so. I just feel like he thinks Theon is going to… I don’t know, corrupt me or something.”

Sansa reflects for a second, and then decides she can’t resist.

“ _Has_ he? You know, corr—”

“ _Alright_ ,” Robb interrupts loudly, thrusting another lemon sweet at her, “we’ve _officially_ talked about me too much.” He’s trying to fight it, but the tips of his cheeks are rapidly turning pink. “Tell me about _your_ hot brunette. She’s still in your room, right?”

It’s Sansa’s turn to blush hotly as she picks at her nails.

“Yeah, resting. There’s nothing much to tell…”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Robb pokes her in the stomach. “You already traumatised me with your little bathroom escapade—”

“You _heard_ us?!” A mix of horror and amusement starts to coil in her stomach.

“Yes, hence the headphones and the MCR, you’re welcome,” he drawls, gesturing towards his laptop. “So you might as well give me the details I _do_ want.”

“Oh god.” Sansa buries her face in her hands. She’d _told_ Marg the sound in this house carries ridiculously well, but her girlfriend is awfully persuasive when she puts her mind to it. When she looks up, Robb is smiling at her, softly, if smugly.

“Come on, I’ve got to do my big brother duty here. What’s she like?”

“I don’t know…” Sansa occupies herself with tossing her sweet from one hand to the other while she stalls and thinks. To try and describe Margaery is like trying to catch the wind in your hands. She’s so many things at once, so many seemingly contradictory things, but it all fits together beautifully in the end. Describing people as puzzles is such a cliché, but here, somehow, it works.

“She’s like…” She pauses, trying to get her words right. “She’s like, if a floribunda rose and a sabre-toothed tiger got together to make a child.” Robb’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, but Sansa holds out her hands in a ‘hear me out’ kind of way. “Like… she’s really beautiful, really lovely, kind, sweet, and absolutely genuine, but also like, incredibly smart, and strong, dangerous if you try to cross her, and downright scary if you mess with her family. And when she cares about things, she cares about them a _lot_ , and she hates to see people taking advantage of others, and she does her best to be a listener, but she also gives great advice, and she’s so pretty, and confident and stylish, and so pretty, and… and I’m rambling…”

She trails off, giving her brother a sheepish look, but he only smiles wider, laughing.

“Yes, you are.” He reaches across to ruffle her damp hair, and kiss her forehead. “You’re also really adorable. She makes you very happy, doesn’t she?”

Sansa can’t help but flush all over again. 

“She does.”

Robb looks as if he’s about to ask another potentially very embarrassing question, but in that moment, the door to his room swings open again, and Theon Greyjoy strides in.

“Hey, we’re in luck, I— oh, hey Sansa.”

“ _Hi_ Theon,” she replies brightly, sliding off of the bed. _Saved by the boyfriend._ “I didn’t hear the doorbell ring.”

“Oh, it didn’t.” He’s already shrugging out of his jacket. “If you’re here, does that mean the little shit is here too? Did you punch him yet?” This directed to Robb, who shakes his head, watching with narrowed eyes as Sansa makes her escape.

“Yeah, about Joffrey…” he starts, picking Theon’s jacket up from where he threw it on the bed, and draping it on a chair. “He’s sort of—”

“I’ll leave you to catch him up on things, then!” Sansa interrupts, slipping through the doorway.

“Oh, come on,” Robb calls after her, “it’s not like we’re just going to start spontaneously snogging.”

“We’re not?”

The last thing Sansa sees is Robb aiming a pastille at his boyfriend’s head. The door closes on her laughter.

~~~

Down in the kitchen, she finds her father sorting through the mail on the island as George Michael seeps through the radio. Solemn-faced and pepper grey, he looks endearingly out of place amidst all the tinsel and wreaths that Mum and Rickon had strung up.

“Hi Dad,” she says, sliding onto the stool opposite him.

“Hello Sansa.” He looks up from a bill to spare her a small smile. “Was that Theon I heard going upstairs?”

“It was.” She grins beneath her hand as he tries to hide his aggrieved look. The kettle goes off on the counter, and he gets up, walking over to the cupboard.

“Well, he hasn’t used the bell for years; I don’t suppose I can ask him to start now, now that he’s…” He peters out, and sighs. “Would you like a cup?”

“Thanks, I would.”

They fall into silence, Sansa cradling her chin in her hands as she watches her father prepare the tea. He’s always been awfully set in his ways, and though she’s used to the Ned Stark who sits with his children for long hours, helps them with their homework, talks to them sternly but kindly when they’ve done wrong, she knows how other people see him. Rigid, fierce, grave. Not for the first time, she wonders how come Theon never seemed to have a problem practically living in the house of the man who’d taken his father down and broken his mother’s heart.

“Here you go.” He clears a space amongst the letters and places the cup in front of her, blowing at his own tea. Sansa directs a grateful smile his way. “How is our guest?” he asks politely, grey eyes locking with her own as he slides back into his seat.

“Napping.” Sansa cradles her hands around the cup, letting the warmth soak into her fingers and trying not to think about how just _talking_ about Margaery makes her want to blush. “The trip up tired her out, I think, and she had her last exam right before we had to get to the airport.”

She sips her tea, and smiles. Her dad never puts enough sugar.

“What did you say she does, again?”

“Political science major, French and international relations minors. Yeah, I know,” she adds with a grin at her father’s impressed look. “It’s a lot, but she somehow manages to get through it, and do really well, and have time for extracurricular stuff, and me…”

She breaks off with a burning blush, expecting her father to interject. When he doesn’t, and only gives her a solemn smile, Sansa gets up to get the sugar.

“She sounds like quite the girl,” her dad intones, looking at her seriously. “Your mother and I were… well, you were there.” She had indeed been there; she’s never going to forget how her father had stepped back quizzically, and her mother widened her eyes and clasped her hands together when Sansa and Margaery had shown up on the doorstep early that morning, holding hands. “But we love you; we always will, no matter who you date.”

The cube melts quickly in the hot amber liquid, and it’s good, to hear those words. Sansa turns back to smile at her father before she makes a path for the door.

“I know Dad. I love you too.” And Robb will kill her for this if he finds out, but. “And I think you should. You know.” She jerks her head gently upstairs. “Before certain people get more worried than they already are.”

The light is slow to dawn in his eyes, but it gets there. He chuckles; quietly, and sort of wonderingly.

“I will, Sansa.”

She blows him a quick kiss, and leaves him amidst his letters.

~~~

The basement has always been Jon’s, from the moment he’d been old enough to want it. Mum was always against it — “How in the world can a child grow up in a _basement_? Jon, sweetheart, you need _light_ and _air_.” — but Jon had been absolutely set on it. He’d made it his own, undeterred by the copious ‘Bat cave’ and ‘Fortress of Soli-brood’ jokes that Theon made. When Sansa gets to the entrance, Bran’s chair is parked next to the door, and she smiles, taking a warming sip of her tea.

She can hear them even before she reaches the fourth stair; voices going back and forth interspersed with a curious crashing noise.

“—end up banging Kaidan, I swear to god, I’ll make you restart.”

“What’s wrong with Kaidan?”

“I’d _love_ to tell you what’s wrong with Kaidan, except I’d fall asleep in the middle of the telling!”

Bright light is coming from the TV, which is paused or something on an animated shot of space, washing the dark room with its gleam. Jon and Ygritte are installed on the couch, facing it as they bicker. Bran is sitting on the other end, clicking away on his laptop. The crashing sound is coming from Rickon, who is banging two of his trucks together seemingly just for the sake of it.

“—with Liara, of course. Would have liked Tali. Would have _loved_ Tali. Ugh, the fact that you can’t romance her is such fucking bullshit.”

“Language. Also, you realise we’d have been able to romance Tali if we’d just been playing with male Shepard from the beginning.”

“Borrr-ring!”

“Hey guys,” Sansa raises her voice to interject before they can get any further, trying not to laugh. Jon and Ygritte have only been together for a year or so, but they are such old married couple material. Four pairs of eyes swivel to meet her, and Sansa raises a hand in a wave. “Just came to say hi. What’s up?”

Rickon blows her a kiss— his new thing — before going back to demolishing his trucks. Jon and Ygritte wave as well, but it’s Bran who answers. 

“Rick’s destroying his old toys in preparation for all the new ones he’s sure to get, Jon is playing Mass Effect, Ygritte is backseat driving—”

“I am not!”

“—and I came down to get a head start on my homework, but now I’m just watching stupid videos on YouTube.”

Sansa nods seriously, brimming with amusement.

“Good stuff.”

“Oh yeah, Sansa, I heard,” Ygritte throws in, slinging an arm over the back of the couch to look at her properly. “Ding dong, the dick’s been dumped. Good for you.”

Sansa snorts, almost spilling her tea, and Jon chastises Ygritte about her foul mouth again. 

“Thanks, Ygritte. It was a long time coming.” _Since two seconds after we got together_ , she thinks with a rueful smile. She’d wasted a long year with Joff, but she’s not ungrateful for what it taught her. Which was mostly ‘stay the hell away from Joff’.

“When do I get to meet the new girl?”

“You’re staying for dinner, right?” The question is more of a formality than anything else; Ygritte is as frequent a guest in a Stark house as Theon, if marginally politer. 

“You bet!”

“Well, you’ll see her there. She’s catching up on her beauty sleep right now.” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bran blushing furiously at his laptop screen. She presses her lips together. Margaery hadn’t spent a lot of time with the family this morning, but she’d still managed to charm the daylight out of Bran in pretty short order. She turns to go, fluttering her fingers at them.

“Oh, hey,” Jon calls, “if you’re headed back up, can you tell Robb to pop down? Ygritte brought over _A Clockwork Orange_ , and he said he wanted to see it.”

“Yeah…” Sansa drawls, “you’re going to have to… text him, or brave his room yourself. Theon’s here,” she explains at his quizzical look. It’s pretty amazing, the rapidity with which Jon’s face falls into a twisty scowl. Some things were never going to change around here, she muses with a silent chuckle.

“Be _nice_!” she calls as she traipses back up the stairs.

“I’ll be nice when he stops being an _ass_!” comes the pouty sounding reply. Sansa tries not to giggle.

~~~

Up in the kitchen again, she reheats her tea in silence, her father having disappeared. She veers into the hall, about to head back up the stairs, when the front door opens. In Arya clomps, mud-splattered and windswept, dressed in her football kit. She hangs up her jacket, drops her bag on the welcome mat, and bites out a muffled curse when it catches on her arm. Sansa smiles into her cup. This is the first she’s seen of her sister, since coming home. 

Arya scrapes the hair plastered to her forehead back behind her ear, kicks the door closed, and looks up. Upon catching sight of Sansa leaning against the bannister, she tenses up immediately, body taut as a bow string.

They stare at each other.

“Did you?” Arya asks, lips barely moving.

Sansa sips her tea.

“Did I what?”

Arya lets out a groan of legitimate agony, and stamps her foot against the mat.

“You know what I mean! Did you?”

Sansa takes another sip of her tea, long and slow, before licking her lips.

“Oh, do you mean… did I enter that lyric writing competition that you told me about? Did I slave over a song about wolves and swords and romance for three nights straight? Did I drive all the way to Dorne with my girlfriend and her brother in his ancient Mazda so we could drop it in at the headquarters ourselves? Did I beat out hundreds, nay, thousands of other entrants to win three VIP tickets to see Nymeria and the Rhoynars when they kick off their Northern tour in White Harbour on New Year’s Day?”

Her sister is trembling, practically fit to burst, and Sansa figures she should put her out of her misery now. She lifts a shoulder in a dainty shrug, winking.

“I did.”

Arya shrieks — so loud there comes a muffled shout of “ _inside voice Arya!_ ” from somewhere upstairs — and launches herself into Sansa’s arms.

“Tea! Tea!” Sansa squeals, laughing as she holds the cup away from them with one hand, and hugs Arya back with the other. Her sister’s grown a lot stronger in the past few months; she won’t be surprised if she’s got a couple of bruised ribs after this. Taller, too; she still needs to tiptoe to plant a crop of kisses on Sansa’s cheek, but not as much as before.

“Oh my god, I love you, you’re the best, thank you so much, I love you, welcome home, you’re the best, I owe you ten thousand favours, I love youuuuu!” The words tumble out of her mouth in a whirl as she tries in vain to reach Sansa’s forehead to kiss it.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that… do you love me?”

Arya settles for planting another slew of kisses over her other cheek, and Sansa grins, hugging back as tight as she can. It honestly hadn’t been _that_ hard to win the tickets; Nymeria and the Rhoynars are pretty indie in the grand scheme of things, just starting out, and there hadn’t been that many other entrants in the competition, a couple hundred for the most. (And from what she’d seen on the website, some of the other entries had been, well. Kind of terrible. Some guy Jaime from the Westerlands had submitted a song dedicated entirely to his hand. Was that supposed to be some kind of masturbation metaphor?) 

But Arya adores them, has this huge awestricken emotional crush on the lead, and as soon as she’d heard about the contest, she’d sent Sansa a pleading, capslock-y email. And, well. She rose to the occasion. _The Wolves Will Come Again_ had been a legitimate labour of sisterly love.

“—and not complain when I go shopping with you,” Arya is saying, “and watch a million bad romcoms with you, and let you comb my hair…”

“Wow, can I get that one in writing?”

She grins, gives her sister a kiss on the cheek, and pulls back. Arya’s nose is almost bright red from the cold outside and her excitement, her eyes a light, electric grey.

“Seriously Sansa, I owe you so much,” she gushes as she tugs off her outer shirt, and drops it on the hardwood floor to soak up the splashes of tea from Sansa’s cup. Sansa opens her mouth to protest, but then just shakes her head, grinning. She’s missed this kid.

“Any time, sweetie. I think I discovered a hidden talent for song writing,” she boasts.

“ _Good_ ,” Arya ejaculates reverently. “If I’d tried to write it, I’d have discovered a hidden talent for punching laptops.”

They grin at each other, and Sansa can’t resist reaching out to ruffle Arya’s hair. It’s a Robb-and-Jon thing she’s been infected with, she reflects wryly. She was never a hair-ruffler.

“Just promise me you’ll have a tonne of fun, okay?”

“…What? You’re not coming?” Arya grin collapses at once into a pout of consternation. “Why not?” she demands.

“Oh, concerts aren’t really my thing…” Sansa shrugs. “And I know you love them, but the Rhoynars are even less my thing. I thought you’d like to take Jon, since he’s another fan. And maybe… that Gendry kid? Hmm?”

Sansa does a bad job of waggling her eyebrows. Arya gives her an appalled look as she collects her bag from the doorway. Her cheeks are now an even ruddier shade of red.

“Gendry? Don’t be gross.”

Sansa uses her teacup to shield her smile once again.

“I’m just saying, I’m probably going to be exhausted on New Year’s, I’ll be useless to you.” It’s the truth; she has plans to take Margaery out, show her the North, see a movie, make out in the snow, go dancing… “Put a lighter in the air for me, okay?”

“Fine,” Arya grumbles, shouldering the bag. For a second, she looks so much younger than her fifteen years. Sansa’s heart squeezes. They’d never been this close when they were kids, but she’s glad she has the chance to make up for it all now. “But this isn’t the last you’re hearing of this from me, okay?”

“I’ll look out for ambushes.”

Arya gives her one more hug, mindful of the tea this time. 

“I’m glad you’re home,” she says, voice muffled in the robe.

“I’m glad I am too,” Sansa replies, rubbing her back.

When Arya pulls away, she looks thoughtful.

“Oh yeah, before I forget… One, where is she, and two, how’d they take it?”

Sansa beams down at her sister, and loves her that much more for asking.

“Upstairs, probably still napping. And… pretty well. There was the surprise, and the ‘are you sure’s, and they’re still kind of wobbling on their feet from the whole Throbb thing—” Arya snorts appreciatively. “—but overall they were really cool about it. And I told you what Margaery is like. I know Mum will love her, and I think Bran is already planning to steal her away from me.”

“Well, good.” Arya nods firmly. Her fists had been clenched at her sides, but she uncurls them now to pick up her shirt from the floor. “I knew they would be, but good. Also, did you do what I told you to?”

Sansa smiles wryly.

“Kick Joffrey in the balls? No…” She glances around, making sure they’re quite alone. “Me and Margaery _did_ give him food poisoning, though. I heard that he almost missed one of his exams, because he spent the morning draped over the toilet.”

Arya blinks at her, and then holds up a hand for a solemn high five. Sansa delivers it with equal gravity. 

They only last a few seconds before breaking out in near identical grins.

\---

Arya hurries up the stairs a few minutes later, to IM Gendry and figuratively dangle the tickets in his face. (Sansa hasn’t even mentioned that the tickets come with backstage passes to see the band, and discuss the possible inclusion of the song in their next album. Arya is going to _freak_.)

She’s about to head up the stairs after her, but then changes course. She slips back into the kitchen, makes another cup of tea, reheats what’s left of hers once again, before gingerly moving up the stairs with them both. Her mother’s study is on the third floor, and it’s a long trip up.

Thankfully, the door is standing slightly ajar when she gets there, and she only has to bump it a little with her hips to push it open.

“I’m coming in!” she calls. “Is it safe? No spoilers floating around on the screen or the floor?”

“Safe,” her mother returns fondly. 

Sansa crosses the threshold, and immediately feels warmer. Coming into her mother’s study is always a bit like stepping back into time. It looks the same as it did fourteen years ago: strong dark oak bookshelves, running from floor to ceiling and packed with every sort of book imaginable; bright curtains, thrown aside to let the afternoon light stream in; the little nook that houses her mother’s desk and computer. Her father had designed this room for her mother, in the cosiest part of the house, after she’d left her family down South to marry him, and the North. Sansa remembers being five, coming in here to curl with up with Robb and Jon in front of the fireplace, and listen to her mother tell them stories in her slow, moving way.

Nowadays, she writes her stories down, publishes them for children all over. At first, Sansa had been a little upset at the fact that Brienne and Melly and all their friends wouldn’t just belong to her anymore, but after seeing how happy it made her mother, and how much everyone seemed to love their adventures… She can’t be any more pleased.

Catelyn swivels round in her chair as Sansa approaches, minimising the window she’s working on. Her hair, almost the same shade of auburn as Sansa’s, is bundled at the top of her head, and her glasses are settled firmly on her nose.

“I come bearing tea,” Sansa announces, and holds out her offering. Her mum accepts it graciously, her beam pushing lines into her cheeks.

“Oh, thank you, lovely. It’s just what I needed.”

Sansa grins. 

“I had a feeling you were hard at work up here.”

“Mhm, trying to dig myself out of a plot hole I spotted.” She cradles the cup in her hands, just like Sansa always does. “Was that Arya I just heard pelting up the stairs?”

“In the flesh. I already warned you about the tickets, so be prepared to hear about that and nothing else for the next couple of weeks.”

Her mother smiles in an affectionate sort of way. Everyone in the house has gotten their head talked off about how amazing Nymeria is at some point, and Catelyn more than most, being always there and always ready to listen.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” She tucks her legs up beneath her. “Situation report?”

“Let’s see…” Sansa uses her fingers to count off her family members against the rim of her teacup. “I think Dad might’ve gone out back, Jon and Ygritte are arguing about kissing aliens in the basement, Rick and Bran are keeping them company, you know where Arya is, and Robb is entertaining a gentleman caller in his room.”

She can’t help but tip a huge wink. There’s a wry look gracing the stately features now. Theon’s near constant presence in the Stark household has always been met with a sort of gentle exasperation and acceptance from her mother; Sansa has the feeling that she, more than anyone else, knows how much he means to Robb.

“I see; I’ll be sure to pop down and say hello in a bit. And your young lady?”

The abrupt shift in topic catches her off-guard, and immediately, Sansa’s cheeks go a little pink. She wonders if she’ll _ever_ stop blushing when people ask her about Margaery.

“My young lady is actually older than me, and she’s still sleeping, I believe.”

“All tired out?”

“Yep. But just wait until she’s rested.” Sansa shrugs her eyebrows. “She’s been pestering me about my famous mum practically since the day we met, and I know she’s going to want to have a long sit down with you and talk about Brienne stuff. It’s half the reason she started chatting me up in the first place, I think.” 

“Oh, go on.” Her mum wags a finger at her. “It was the fact that you’re gorgeous and have a charming personality and wonderful taste in clothes.”

They wrinkle their noses at one another, Sansa beaming on the inside all the while.

“But of course, I’d be happy to chat with her about _The Tales of Winter and Summer_ at some point.”

“Just not when I’m around!” Sansa reminds her sternly. “Remember, I still haven’t read the fifth book yet, and I’ve been dodging spoilers all semester.”

“I’ll be extra vigilant,” her mum promises. “And I’ll be glad to spend some time alone with the lovely Miss Tyrell, and see what she’s like.” Her blue eyes twinkle a bit.

“Uh-oh,” says Sansa.

“Stop that, you,” comes the gentle chastisement. “I won’t be cross-examining her, you needn’t fret. We’ll just have a nice discussion, and I’m sure she—” Cat cuts herself off as Sansa’s shoulders start to shake with laughter. She leans back in her chair, and levels a fond look at her daughter. “…You’re not worried at all, are you?”

“Not even a little.” Sansa smiles, tucking a curl of her hair behind her ear. “You’re two of my most favourite ladies in the entire world for a reason; I just know you’ll love each other.”

Her mother’s eyes soften like sapphires under a lit flame. She transfers her teacup to one hand to that she can tug Sansa down by the wrist. Cool lips meet her temple, and warmth spreads through Sansa’s limbs. She’s being kissed all over today. It is so lovely to be home.

“If,” her mum says kindly, looking her in the eye, “she is even half as sweet and charming and intelligent as she seemed this morning, then I will utterly _adore_ her.”

“She’s a billion times sweeter,” Sansa can’t help saying sappily. A laugh greets her in reply, and her mother pats her cheek.

“You are quite smitten, aren’t you?” Her eyes crinkle at the sides. There are wrinkles there that weren’t in evidence fourteen years ago, but her mother seems as young as ever, surrounded by her stories. “Go on, get back to her. You need your rest too.”

“Yeah… I am kind of exhausted,” Sansa admits. “Just wanted to come up and say hi.”

“And bring your mum tea.” Cat winks, and finally takes a sip. “Ah… now this is good. Your father made me a cup earlier today, but, dear thing, he never—”

“—adds enough sugar,” Sansa finishes for her, eyes twinkling. “I know.”

~~~

She attempts to stay chatting for a while longer, but when she yawns, twice, her mum chases her out with threats to reveal the identity of Brienne’s mother. Sansa makes a quick escape, hair streaming over her shoulders as she laughs.

Back down in her room, she closes the door as quietly as she can. Her tea has managed to go all cold once again, Sansa realises when she takes a swallow, but the sight of Margaery curled up under the duvet banishes all beverage related thoughts at once. Sansa sets her cup down on the dresser, and slips into bed.

“Hi,” she whispers, kissing Margaery’s nose. Her lips catch on stray strands of brown; Margaery’s hair is all a tumble and mess of curls around her face. With gentle fingers, Sansa clears it all away; tucking her tresses over her head and behind her ears until she can trace the arched brows, tickle the high cheeks, brush against the dip of her chin. Her girlfriend puts up a decent façade of being asleep until Sansa huddles in to kiss her mouth, softly. She feels Margaery smile.

“God, how are you so warm?” she groans, pulling Sansa against her by her waist. “I’m _freezing_.”

“Poor baby,” Sansa laughs, wrapping her arms around her and briskly rubbing her back. “What are you going to do when it dips below zero?”

Margaery groans again.

“Ugh, I’m warning you, I’m going to become a cuddle-monster. And an other-stuff-monster too, if I can manage it.”

She punctuates that statement with a brisk peck that Sansa quickly turns into a longer one, sliding her hand down to Margaery’s waist so she can slip it up under her shirt. Margaery makes an appreciative sound.

“We already sorta got caught,” Sansa sees fit to inform her, even as she presses kiss after kiss into the column of Margaery’s throat. Somehow, she doesn’t feel quite so tired anymore. “By my _brother_.”

“He and Loras can start a club, then,” Margaery teases airily, and hums, angling her neck. Sansa giggles into it.

“ _Behave_.”

“Says the girl currently trying to cop a feel.” Margaery cups her face for a long, lazy kiss. Sansa is not cold, but she shivers all the same, running her fingers along the smooth skin of Margaery’s stomach. “Is it time to get up yet?”

“No, we still have a few more hours before it’s time for you to go down and finish charming the socks off of my family.”

“Well, I’ll set my phasers to charisma,” she promises. “Meanwhile…”

If she’d blinked, she would have missed it; Margaery goes from sleepy mumbles and gentle touches to slamming Sansa against the mattress in less than a second. The bed squeaks loudly, and Sansa would protest, but her girlfriend swoops down to claim her mouth in a hard, hot kiss.

 _Girlfriend_ , she thinks as Margaery giggles and advises her to be quieter, leaving a wet trail along her jaw.

Yeah. Still amazing.

**Author's Note:**

> I should mention that I know literally nothing about Mass Effect, except what I've learnt from friends. And I am assured that it is bullshit that lady Shep can't romance Tali.


End file.
